


He Dwelled In Foreign Land

by SergeantWings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Depression, Eventual Romance, Exile, First Kiss, Isolation, M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, The word I couldnt remember was exile holy fuck, WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED, also sherlocks not in belgium, and john is upset, fuck it, hes in berlin, idk what to tag, im done now, mycrofts a bitch, not isolation, sherlocks in belgium, thats included too, wow my tags are a WRECK
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2481269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SergeantWings/pseuds/SergeantWings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its been 3 months since 'the fall' and Sherlocks mind is still drowning in his mistakes. He never wanted to leave John like that, never mind without an apology or explanation. </p><p>But while stationed overseas to destroy the final remnants of Moriartys web and ensure his and Johns safety, Sherlock inadvertently throws John back into the cross fire when John is kidnapped, and it doesn't take long for the blogger to start putting the pieces together in the hope of seeing his best friend once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now I'm no one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There wont be a poem at the beginning of each I just wrote this and I liked it ^^;

Collar popped, the angel stood,

Upon his concrete stage,

 

The soldier left helpless below,

A bird trapped in its cage,

 

One phone call is all it took,

To silence all the screams,

 

All of the Kings 'masterpieces',

In the forms of shattered dreams,

 

It was his turn now, to look

Into his best friends frightened eyes,

 

Hold back the tears, reach out,

And proclaim he was all 'lies',

 

'All clever little circus tricks',

Made to build his reputation,

 

To prove he was a man,

That could surpass Gods own creation;

 

But his soldier couldn't fight,

Underneath such false pretenses,

 

To think these walls his angel built,

Weren't solid brick but fences,

 

But the king laid dead upon the stage,

And stained their fate with red,

 

Because if the angel didn't fall,

He would find his soldier dead.

 

**_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_ **

And it was here Sherlock dwelled, in foreign land, and foreign clothing. The only item of familiarity was his phone, and even its mechanical blue glow would yield nothing but disappointment when its optimistic little ping was heard. Only an occasional text from Mycroft regarding their work with Moriarty. This job was murder, Mycroft had his brother on a leash and it was killing him.

"Text no one, phone no one, see no one, be no one. This mission is the highest of both our priorities, brother, and it's discretion is essential." Mycrofts words still echoed in his memory, and for now Sherlock had to trust him; an exercise he would ordinarily avoid, but that was when he had John to fall back on. 

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock slumped against the filthy wall in Berlin. He thought the 'post-fall' cesspool of terrible feelings would have dissipated by now, but 3 months in and whenever he thought of John, a sickening mixture of all these emotions grew in his stomach, then spilled throughout his entire body. He could still remember every detail in that final phone call, every shake and crack in Johns voice, his panic as he fell, his choked voice as he ran to his corpse... He tried to stop his train of thought there, he could feel tears return to his cold cheeks, each one reminding him it was his fault. His fault that he didn't deal with Moriarty properly. His fault he didn't tell John, his fault he didn't comfort him as he cried. Hell it was his fault he chose him to move in with in the first place

It was all his fucking fault.

Sherlock slipped further down the wall, crouching with his head in his lap, and phone in his fist. He breathed another heavy sigh, clipped off as his phone buzzed. Mycrofts timing was impeccable.

He dragged his hands through his hair, hastily wiped his face, and stood up, trying desperately to compose himself.

"What is it Mycroft?" His voice shook, Mycroft hesitated.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, clearly I caught you at bad time I'll ca--"

"Mycroft, What is it?" he hissed.

"Nothing just a little check up is all"

"You never have time for 'check ups'.'"

"Well then I made time, Sherlock."

Lies. Mycroft doesn't trust Sherlocks updates until he can hear them for himself. He'd even gone as far as restricting Sherlocks phone from being able to contact anyone but him. Also, knowing Mycroft he was probably getting depressed that even when Sherlock couldn't talk to anyone else, he still wouldn't talk to his brother; He's petty that way. 

"Well whats the news then?" Sherlock asked, irritated.

"Umm...Well Johns Doctor says he's going to **start** getting better. She's brought **back** his psychiatrist and swapped the drugs to a **lighter** choice." The stress in his words were obvious and Sherlock could no longer overlook the obvious subtext.

"Mycroft, you could at least _try_ to be subtle. You know shes wrong; shes afraid he's going to commit suicide and the only way she thinks she can prevent it is switching him to a 'safer' drug and forcing him back to his shrink. Although you have already been informed of this...outcome... haven't you?" Sherlock tried to clear his throat, but a lump had already formed.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. You wanted me to keep an eye on him and I have done precisely that. Although if you would prefer I could remove him from the updates entirely." He proposed coldly.

"No Mycroft. I made those terms intentionally, and I intend to stick to them. So what else?"

"Well John still sleeps on the sofa. He barely moves during the day, unless he has work, but Mrs Hudson visits him often so you shouldn't worry. Gregg and Molly are still fine, working on dull cases, but they seem content enough...Gregs having some trouble with some robberies though..." The call faded out as Sherlock took a second to fully process the previous information. But the line swiftly went silent, prompting him to respond. "Is that everything?" He inquired.

"Everything." Mycroft replied.

And the call was terminated.

Johns condition was worse than he thought. He knew he would mourn, but suicide just seemed impossible to comprehend; John was John, he was: strong, optimistic, brave, a fighter, a real soldier! This couldn't be happening, this simply wasn't happening. Mycroft had to have a hand in this somehow, maybe he was lying, which was always a possibility. Maybe he was fed up of Sherlock not being 310% focused on the job so he tells him that John committed suicide and then Sherlock would have nothing left to hold him back, and it would be work as normal once again!

But Mycrofts vocal stress was normal when he mentioned John being suicidal; it fluctuated when he mentioned the Doctors decisions, but not Johns condition itself...shit, Mycroft was telling the truth.

But then again, Mycroft _was_  the one who forced the idea of not telling John on him from the start! If it's anyones fault, it's Mycrofts fault. His weasley, slimy, manipulative brothers fault. Sherlock didn't even know why he trusted him at all; of course he had a good plan to get him out of the trouble with Moriarty but it should have been plain to see that telling John, at least afterward, was an obvious, logical idea anyway. But because Sherlock had followed Mycroft this far into the plan, it was pretty much guaranteed that he would blindly go ahead with the rest of this awful idea despite what his higher intellect should have pointed out! 

Sherlock stood back up, tucked his phone away, and began walking frustratedly down the street. The next time he sees his brother, he's tearing out his jugular vein with his teeth, and ramming the mangled flesh down his throat to choke on. How  **dare** he make Sherlock think twice on his better judgement, how dare he  **mislead** him like that...

His mind was combing through the various methods of gruesome murder he could inflict (and getaway with) on his brother as he hurried down the street, he didn't even have a planned destination but as each minute passed, the air grew colder, and the sky blackened, and Sherlocks anger was gradually replaced with relaxation as it approached his favourite time of night, and his pace slowed down.

Sherlock had always appreciated the tranquility that came with midnight walks; Crisp air and empty streets recreated a weird high each time he experienced it, It was like being the lone survivor after an apocalypse but with every detail of the old world preserved perfectly for only him to enjoy.

It was almost perfect.

But the emotive outburst had drained him and Sherlocks sleep deprivation caught up with him, so he slipped down the back alley of a row of cheap, battered houses, looking into the gardens and windows of each. Because if walking around this time of night helped him cope, sleeping in it was a god send.

He glanced into the first house; "Office worker, two cats, nope." He moved to the second "Dog, unmarried couple, and three small children, nope." And again to the third. "Elderly couple, avid gardeners, early risers, definitely not." He grew irritated as he reached the fourth house "Students, god no..." he whispered to himself, even though as he approached the fifth house he realised his luck had finally brightened. His eyes scanned each detail meticulously. "No pets or children, single owner, no doubt male, hectic job, too occupied to maintain the garden or home, but still keeps the pictures of his ex clean and visible. Perfect."

Sherlock vaulted the meter tall fence with ease, and quickly spotted an old garden lounger barely visible through a patch of severely overgrown grass and shrubbery; and this, Sherlock decided as he sneaked through the grass, would be his bed tonight.

But even with his perfect environment, Sherlock quickly came to regret this particular choice in sleeping area. The lawn chair was made of pretty comfy cushions, but **incredibly**  creaky plastic, and the ground around him offered nothing but thorns, nettles, hardened earth, and unbearably long grass that tickled every exposed area of skin Sherlock had; and after the futile attempt at 'making the best' out of what he was sure was a retired torture device, his mind began combing through the earlier phone call with Mycroft, which obviously led to the same heated feelings as before until it snagged his attention on the idea of removing John from his list of updates entirely.

The thought made his heart heavy but his brain continued extracting points on the idea, persistent to conclude the matter as Sherlock had trained it to do with every other issue. But each new point felt like a pin being pushed into his torso, and he didn't want to think of the logic when the thought of John was so much more welcoming; and getting Mycroft to hear how upset Sherlock was over John might push him into the emotional breakdown Sherlock so desperately wanted his brother to lapse into. But did this mean he was using Johns depression, including his suicidal nature, just to get even with his brother? But despite Mycrofts personal ham-fisted attempt at subtlety, his surveillance core was much more efficient so John would never even know about this! But he can't face hearing about Johns hardships anymore knowing he can't help, or even comfort him. But he gets updates on Mrs Hudson so its pointless trying to avoid him when she visits him so often. But if John _did_  find out that Mycrofts been surveying him for Sherlock then he would hate him. But he didn't want to severe his final tie to normality and comfort and home when it was still available to him. But he would be so much more efficient and would finish this job so much quicker if he didn't focus on these things. But he can't just 'un-know' John, no amount of mind tricks could just remove such a large part of him; but maybe that was the point of all this. But--

"Ugh." Sherlock groaned, this thought was proving more physically painful than the lawn chair, and the sleep deprivation was compromising his ability to think straight; he just needed some sleep, all he needed was one nights sleep.

But not before he heard one last little optimistic ping.

'Also please stop sleeping in strangers gardens, the unused accommodation isn't cheap, Sherlock.- MH.'

'Goodnight, Mycroft.-SH'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first couple chapters are just gonna be angsty set up so I hope its interesting enough to keep people reading :')  
> I will upload chapters as often as I can, but I have college and work so a schedule isn't really possible; also I don't know how many there will be but its not gonna be a majorly long fic. Or at least, if it does have many chapters, I doubt they will be long chapters; Im pretty bad at lengthy writing but meh I hope someone likes this. There is a second chapter ready, but I'm just polishing it up atm. It will be up soon though.
> 
> Also, R&R is helpful cos I don't have a beta so yeah ^^; thank you and I hope its okay <3


	2. Next, Please.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 Months In.

John was in a sea of overdue paperwork again, he hated being overflowed with this sort of bollocks. It made home feel more like the job he didn't even feel was worth the trouble hating anymore.

Plastering on a fake smile for each patient and having to endure their increasingly dull and incessant small talk was beginning to feel like razor wire was cutting into his smile, making its insincerity more visible with each severed shred of tissue. To add to that, each shift had been so uninteresting that John couldn't even work up the energy to believe that today's the day he gets a patient that challenges him, or at least releases him from this stupor with a case he doesn't have to just throw a pharmacist at.

He rubbed his eyes. He didn't like this way of thinking, it made him feel old. Other military doctors would literally kill to be where John is right now, but they detested the violence, the pressure, and tension that John needed and craved so desperately to work.

He let out a heavy sigh and glanced at his watch, 02:38 AM; "Ugh"  he grunted; A big mug of tea, that's what he needed. John shuffled his way to the kitchen, his pajama bottoms scuffing under his feet.

He began the ritual of tea making: tea bag in the pot, kettle of water boiling, and open the cupboard to choose his mug. He scanned over his usual ones, but his eyes drifted towards the back, towards the mugs that Sherlock always used, and even the occasional twin set they kept in. John paused over one of his own mugs, before he reached tentatively to the back to grab Sherlocks instead. He missed making them both tea, few words were shared, but when they were they were always pleasant, and his company alone was always relaxing. But now he was stressed almost constantly, and chats with Mrs Hudson were alright;but nothing could ever beat tea with Sherlock Holmes. Especially when they clambered in at 3am, straight off a case, covered in filth, blood, sweat, barely conscious, aching, and making them both tea before they passed out in their chairs. He missed that...

The kettle whistle let out a harsh whine, disrupting his thoughts, and John was back to being occupied by his tea once more, until he sat down in his chair and his thoughts pooled into the steaming mug in his hands as he sipped from it. 

God he missed that job, that high; running with his life on line, facing the criminals the police couldn't even get near, John **adored** that job. Watching Sherlock use that brilliant mind, as he played the badass military doctor with his gun at the ready, and his sights lined firmly between the eyes of whichever bastard that thought they could escape their grip. But it was the victory stamped in every newspaper headline that he truly missed; "THE AMAZING HOLMES AND WATSON", bragging about how they balanced the scales of justice once again as the daring duo of the 21st century. That pure rush of feeling almost made him believe in god himself because nature just couldn't create the same deliciously seductive feeling of triumph, the feeling of overjoyed weightlessness, the guaranteed moral high ground knowing he had saved lives that day; That feeling felt as individual to him as his own fingerprint.

But even if nature could possibly recreate such feelings, he knew it could only take a true genius, and artist, to make another.

Resting the mug on the side table, he turned to see Sherlocks bedroom door. It had remained shut since its owner last closed it and John couldn't bear opening it yet; The thought felt like reopening a cursed tomb, or maybe he was just figured that one day Sherlock would emerge from it, sleepy and bewildered, and John would make them tea, turn on the TV, and life would return to normal again... "Fucking hell, just please let life get back to normal." John begged.

John could tell how tired he was at this point, his spiteful nature always seemed to be more evident late at night, so grouchily he returned to the sofa; shoved his work back in defeat, and pulled a blanket over himself.

As he was adjusting his pillows he could hear Mrs Hudson coming upstairs, she was always so careful with each step and her little heels clicked daintily behind her. She gingerly knocked and opened the door, her face peering out the small gap.

"Are you alright, dear?"

John nodded half-heartedly

"I could hear you walking around, you really need to get your sleep. Your work has started ringing, you know."

Perfect.

"They've been sent a letter from your psychiatrist and she wants to know if you're fit enough to work."

Even better. Now 'concerned' colleagues will be pestering him all hours of the day like he's a sensitive fucking time bomb. He groaned at the thought. The only thing he liked about work was that he was given his own office to avoid the other staff as much as possible. But he pushed this thought away and rolled over, dismissing Mrs Hudson with a half-hearted wave.

She huffed in annoyance,"You know your rent still covers your bedrooms, I don't know why you still sleep on that ratty old thing." She reminded him.

"G'night, Ms Hudson." John replied as she shut the door behind her, leaving him alone once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blehhhh, this one was tough. Its 2 am, I am tired and wow I didn't polishing up a chapter would include me re writing most of it, and then adding a fuck ton to it. I say a fucktonne, but yeah barely 3000 words between them is hella short but thats probably just gonna be the first chapters cos now I have it set up Im gonna try get the actual story on the go in the next chap. Its probably gonna take me a while to write the 3rd as well as I want to plan the timeline a bit first, get a rough base to go on, then it will all work out :) 
> 
> Sorry its gonna be a bit rough to get started but hopefully as i get going it will be good :D
> 
> Also please correct any mistakes I glossed over ^^; its been a long day and my eyes can barely see...


End file.
